


soleil eclipse of the pusher

by butthulu



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Acrobatics, Adult Baizli Soleil, Adult Barzum Soleil, Adult Trolls (Homestuck), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Come Inflation, Deepthroating, Drug Withdrawal, Fluff and Smut, Hallucinations, Mild Blood, Mind Meld, Mind Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Nonbinary Baizli Soleil, Nonbinary Barzum Soleil, Nooks (Homestuck), Oral Sex, Other, Psychic Abilities, Sex, Sober Gamzee Makara, Stabbing, Tentabulges (Homestuck), The Soleil Twins Are The Same Being
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butthulu/pseuds/butthulu
Summary: (Honestly, the title is a lot more poetic than the content.)Gamzee has some problems with withdrawals while quitting sopor. Barefoot and alone, he follows a pull in his pan towards the middle of nowhere and finds a tent.Soleil hears from the Messiahs that they may have a special guest. They ensure this is the case, and then they put on a show.
Relationships: Baizli Soleil/Gamzee Makara, Barzum Soleil/Gamzee Makara, Barzum Soleil/Gamzee Makara/Baizli Soleil
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16
Collections: Drone Season 2020





	soleil eclipse of the pusher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lildogie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/gifts).



> ((Please let me know if I've missed something I should have tagged! I hope you enjoy ^u^))

Baizli hears it first. Their ear flicks as they listen to the whisper in their pan, steel wool on a chalkboard far away, teeth-gritting spikes of someone else's pain being broadcast in bursts like the broadcaster doesn't know how to control their chucklevoodoos. Then, the voice of the Messiahs, special message from the (big) top, pouring such miracle information into their pan. Soleil is practicing being silent to themselves right now, separating, even though it's unpleasant; but Baizli can't keep themself contained, not when there's such exciting news to be shared!! 

Barzum is nonplussed.

_ it's just someone going through withdrawals, _ they say. They've had experience in this. As an afterthought, they add,  _ or being culled. slowly. _ Either way, not their problem. Either of their problems.

_ BUT THE MESSIAHS SAY THAT HE'S SPECIAL. THE FIRST'S DESCENDANT. _

Barzum at least takes a moment to consider this. It's not ever a good idea to ignore the Messiahs, they're usually correct and there's often consequences. Not that the Messiahs punish anyone- it's more that choosing the obviously incorrect option leads to disastrous results. _ i suppose we could set up the full show for him, if the messiahs say he'll come by. _

Soleil turns to the Messiahs expectantly, their combined attention on their link to the Messiahs. Silence, at least for now, but sometimes silence can be just as revealing as a direct reply. They don't like just giving their Followers answers- just nudging them in the right direction. Soleil takes this particular silence as a soft yes, and launch themselves into setting up their equipment, buzzing with excitement.

========

Mother _ fuck, _ withdrawals are awful. 

Gamzee's scratched his skin raw in the past three weeks more times than he can count. He can't focus on  _ shit, _ he's sweating more than that filthy motherfucker Zahhak, and his pusher feels like it's in his throat  _ all _ the fucking  _ time, _ his gastric sac tied in knots. He can't eat without puking, he can't sleep, and the hallucinations he sees aren't sludgy rainbow-oil laid over everything anymore, no pretty patterns to keep him occupied; no, these are daymares given life, driving him to tears with their screeching and looming. They slide their fingers under his skin and into his joints, ripping and tearing and causing him no end of pain even after the visions themselves are gone. Music drifts on the wind to him although his windows are closed. He can't hear the Messiahs through the noise. Desperately he's tried to cling to them, but his chucklevoodoos have been on the fritz since he quit sopor and the withdrawal set in. 

Probably because he can't focus. 

Maybe fresh air will do him some good; he hasn't been outside in weeks, and he feels like he's suffocating in the grip of his hive, stagnant air filthy with stink and sweat and despair. He needs to get out. So he stumbles out of his hive in fresh clothes pulled on with stiff, slow fingers, hair unkempt and fangs in desperate need of scrubbing. He can take care of that when he comes back( _ if _ he comes back?), he tells himself, walking along the beach. The sand is cool and soothing on his bare toes, fine grain getting into the curl at the hem of his pants, sticking to his toes. It's nothing he hasn't felt before, but as he is, it feels new and exactly like what he needed.

His mind is still disquieted, his body still in pain. The cool night air can only do so much, only banishes the shaky anxiety and the feeling of suffocation. The pain is still there, even without the spectres to slip their knife-hands into him. Walking soothes his instinct to flee-or-fight, and the further he gets from his hive the more he feels....  _ something. _ Like the Messiahs but not. A person(persons?) on the edge of his mental radar. He turns from the beach and wanders onto the grass, ignoring the way the blades poke at his feet and the grabby feelers of the brush trying to snap him up. Gamzee wades through taller and taller grass, until he's nearly chest-deep in it. 

Until he emerges onto a flattened circle. 

Within the circle is a pavilion, fabric staked to the ground and ceiling reaching seventy feet up. Its stripes are gaudy purple and gold, eye-searing and impossible to look away from. Gamzee is shocked he didn't see it before- though when he feels the tingle in his pan, finally noticeable this close up, he understands why. There's powerful chucklevoodoos at work here, pulling him while keeping him(and others, he imagines) ignorant of the tent's presence until it's too late. 

Kind of morbid. But Gamzee likes morbid. And his curiosity is strong enough to draw him in better than any outside influence. Golden light spills onto the grass, inviting while obscuring what,  _ exactly _ , lies inside. Gamzee accepts the invitation.

The glow pierces his retinas, making him hiss, but once the spots fade, he's left with a shockingly dark room. The tent seems bigger from the inside, somehow? The outside was already improbably huge, especially for a lone tent seemingly stranded from its typical dark-carnival bretheren. Inside, the ceiling seems to stretch to a hundred feet or more, and the radius is enormous, easily bigger than the matted grass circle that contains the tent. Gamzee's attention isn't on the size of the tent for long, though.

In the center of the tent, under a spotlight just in front of the pole, stands a troll.

Their face is obscured by a mask, half of it covered in gold, with a deep frown carved into the surface and painted in orange. The horn of the mask is huge; Gamzee can't help but wonder how heavy it is. The only paint on their face is pale-grey eyeshadow, accentuating their purple and orange eyeliner. Matching lipstick draws his eyes to the smile that contradicts the troll's mask, full of sharp teeth and familiar glee.

And then he notices the purple horn behind their head.

"WeLcOmE," a voice cries in unison. The troll steps away from the center, as another troll- expertly hidden behind the first- steps in the opposite direction. The second troll has a mask that covers the opposite side of their face, adorned in purple and a smile while their true expression is a doleful frown. Their arms rise in sync, and they give flourishing bows.

"TO OUR SHOW!"

"to our tent."

The trolls' suits match, one completing the other. Ribbons of gold cross their abdomens, separating black top halves from purple bottom halves. One arm, one leg bare on the gold-masked troll, is covered on the purple-masked one, and vice versa. Each wears a glove and a slipper on their bare sides. If their suits were combined, no skin below the neck would be shown at all. 

"THE MESSIAHS TOLD US YOU WERE COMING," the gold one chirps, exposed eye bright.

"they told us you were special." The purple one drags their eye over Gamzee's frame, appraising.

"WE'RE PUTTING ON A SHOW, JUST FOR YOU!"

Gamzee's eyebrows rise, and he points at himself. Him? They're putting on a show, just for him. Like he's some kind of VIP guest. 

"yes, you." The purple one rolls their eye.

"I'M BAIZLI," the gold one announces.

"i'm barzum."

"AnD wE hOpE yOu EnJoY tHe ShOw!"

Another bow. They snap their fingers, the sound echoing around the tent. The lights go dark. When the spotlight returns, Baizli is posed at the top of two lengths of silk, suspended from the supports at the top of the tent, horizontal. Music begins to play from...  _ somewhere, _ and Baizli takes a moment to grin directly at Gamzee before letting go, pulling a gasp from him. 

At least, that's what Gamzee thought they did. 

They tumble down the silk, rolling in the air, and stop just before the bottom, firmly gripping the silk in both hands. Two feet above the ground, they stop, legs spread into splits. Slowly they bring their legs up, body contorting to twist them upside down, mask a bare inch from scraping the floor. Baizli climbs and climbs, wrapping the purple and gold silk around their upper thighs, and once they reclaim their place at the top, they gain momentum to spin themself in a circle using the tails of silk, causing the silk above them to twist around itself. Baizli straightens up, takes the separate silk cloths in hand, and separates them, spinning their body much faster than before. Their legs spread, and then one leg tucks in to wrap one banner of silk around it once more. They twist the silk into shapes around themself, using their joints for points in triangles, squares, and even an angular spade, the silk at the bottom point held in their fangs. 

Gamzee is held breathless through each feat, eyes wide and mouth open like a wiggler in awe. He leans forward in his seat(when did he sit?), his fingers gripping his legs hard enough to bruise. 

Eventually the music crescendos, and Baizli finishes the performance the same way they started it: with a stunning drop, tumbling end over end and stopping just before the floor. They hang there for a few moments, then twist and lever themself onto their feet, leaving the silk hanging behind them as they take a bow. 

Of motherfucking  _ course _ Gamzee claps.

The spotlight goes dark again, but this time, Gamzee anticipates it. He lets the darkness soothe his ganderbulbs, as strained as they were by the brightness of the light. 

When the light snaps on once more, both of them are present. Barzum had remained out of sight for the last performance, but now, they're both contorted around a ring off to the side of the center, each with a leg tucked behind the ring and one resting on the edge, foot tucked over the opposite knee. The ring has just enough room for both of them, and as they move, they demonstrate just how far they can push the boundaries of that space. Barzum hangs by one foot hooked over the bottom edge of the ring while Baizli drapes themself over the top edge. They twist and twirl along the sides, at some times perfectly symmetrical and in others beautifully asymmetrical- all the while in perfect synchrony. Baizli flings Barzum by their feet across the room to another ring, empty until now- making Gamzee gasp, then clap his hand over his mouth for the simple blasphemy of possibly interrupting. Relief courses through him as Barzum catches the ring and twirls themself up to sit within it, like a pupa on a tire swing. 

The twins are able to do much more with the newfound freedom of movement. They _ fly _ , the rings following them and swinging with their momentum. Several times, Gamzee thinks they'll drop to the floor, break their necks, but every time, they catch themselves with ease born of sweeps of practice. When the music fades, the rings lower to the floor, and Gamzee claps, breathless.

Their third performance doesn't require that they turn the lights off. Instead, the twins turn to each other, bow, and pull out knives. They take turns throwing the slim daggers at each other while their counterpart dodges, forming a dance that takes them in artful circles around the grassy floor of the tent. The dodger turns into a blur of graceful limbs, while the other stalks them, until they switch, often reversing directions and giving ground.

When they both run out of daggers, they trade physical blows- or, rather, they look like they're fighting, at first glance. A deeper look tells Gamzee that they're still dancing, lunges and kicks never once landing. Both of them know the move the other will make before they make it, so they find it trivial to avoid the strikes by a hair's breadth. Their violent ballet increases in speed, leading to a climactic finish where each pulls out one last dagger and they slam together, chest to chest and legs entangled, before plunging their daggers into their twin's back.

Twin sprays of purple spatter the grass as they pull the knives out, and they turn to Gamzee, fingers laced together. He claps and cheers, an exhilarated grin on his face. Barzum cackles, while Baizli just pants, face flushed. They grab bottles of water from their sylladexes, and meander on wobbly legs over to Gamzee's bench, plopping down on either side of him. 

"DID YOU LIKE IT?" Barzum's voice is booming, excitement having gotten their pusher rate up. Their eye gleams with interest and urgency- they clearly  _ need _ to know that they entertained, that their special guest enjoyed the performance. 

From Gamzee's right: "we kind of went easy on you- we thought you'd like something pretty, not violent. we couldn't help ourselves towards the end, though."

"BuT iT's NoT fUn WiThOuT a LiTtLe BlOoDsHeD, rIgHt?"

The twins eagerly await his answer, leaning in with their hands on the bench, grin and expectant moue finally matching their masks’s painted expressions. Gamzee is a little overwhelmed, but he does nod and say, "Sure as shit ain't, wicked sibling." 

They seem pleased to be referred to in the singular, cutting glances at each other where he can clearly see. Barzum grabs his hand, pulls it close to their chest. "WE'VE BEEN WONDERING," they start.

"if you'd want to play with us," Baizli finishes, timid but hopeful. "we don't get very many personal visitors, and you're cute. you liked the show, right?"

Before Gamzee can reply, Barzum butts in. "SO LET US GIVE YOU ANOTHER!"

To be honest, Gamzee's head is whirling, both from the show and from the withdrawal symptoms; they're easier to ignore when he's around someone he's sure is real, but his body is still in pain and his mind is still fogged and whirly like sandblasted carnival glass. He's unsure about this. "What exactly do you mean by play?" 

The twins look at each other, and this time, they  _ both _ grin, if only for just a moment. Then they look back up at him, back to their normal expressions- still switched, but separate and different. Baizli leans in close and murmurs, "pailing, duh, silly."

Yeah, that's what Gamzee thought. He hasn't pailed anyone in.... almost a sweep, and it'll be drone season soon, and he doesn't really like the idea of having to fight his way through a swarm of drones  _ again _ , so this might work in both his favor and theirs. Sure, they might be luring him in to their trailer to kill him, but they seem genuine enough. So Gamzee nods. Maybe it'll help him focus less on the pain.

Barzum squeals in excitement, hooking their arm around Gamzee's. "YOU WON'T REGRET IT! WE'LL SHOWER BEFORE, SO YOU CAN CHECK OUT OUR TRAILER WHILE WE DO THAT!" The two of them pull Gamzee to his feet before he can stand on his own, and practically drag him out of the tent and around to the back. Again he's struck by how much smaller the tent is on the outside- he wonders how that's possible. 

He doesn't have much time to dwell on it, though, because as soon as they reach the trailer around the back of the tent, he's being shoved through the door by the enthusiastic twins. Gamzee stumbles, but catches himself on a counter to his right, the edge of it curved and lined with rubber to soften any impact. The trailer itself is huge, as well- its ablution block definitely looks large enough to accommodate two people, and in the bedroom there's a recuperacoon and an Empress-size reclining platform, its sheets a mess of purple and gold. (Gamzee's beginning to notice a pattern, here.) The walls are covered in blankets, and posters of circus shows, many of them signed. Every piece of upholstery looks well-loved from time, but luxuriant all the same, and covered in gold accents, with many of the main bodies painted blood-purple. It must have cost a fortune. Gamzee sits on the edge of the couch across from the door as the twins spill into the space, giggling to each other and already beginning to undress. He doesn't get to see much before they close the ablution block door behind them, but he  _ swears _ he catches a wink from Baizli. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he glances at the bed, before looking away. 

Wow. They're... certainly something. Something good, definitely. 

Gamzee distracts himself from his increasingly flushed thoughts by meandering over to the platform. Testing the mattress shows its softness, and how many layers of blankets there are(at least three). He climbs up onto it, and lays down, unsure if he should, but unable to resist the siren call of the plush surface. He closes his eyes for just a moment.

========

The whispering of real voices(not that he's usually able to tell) wakes Gamzee from his doze. As soon as his eyes begin to flutter open, the whispers cease, and he's greeted by the smiling faces of the twins, who are leaning over him, one on either side. Baizli smiles, back to "normal", and pushes Gamzee's hair out of his eyes. Barzum tells him, "your face paint is still on." Theirs is off, purple and orange makeup washed away, and the eyeshadow, too. It's all gone now. As are their actual masks. 

"May as well take it off," Gamzee says, because that seems like what they want him to do, and it's not like it's pleasant to kiss paint. It's not the best taste, he knows. 

Baizli holds up a washcloth, grin widening. "LET US?" They at least  _ try _ to keep their voice down, but Gamzee still winces. 

"Sure, motherfucker, it's bound to be easier than trying to get it off myself."

Baizli and Barzum sit him up and get to work on his face, one hand from either of them cupping each side of his jaw while they rub the paint off with damp washcloths. It takes several minutes, but the cool water on his skin is soothing, and when he closes his eyes, it almost feels like a lusus's tongue, cleaning him all over. The thought is silly- his lusus hasn't even showed his miserable motherfucking muzzle in sweeps- but comforting, nonetheless. Gamzee nearly drifts off in their hands, the only thing keeping him awake being their giggles at his sleepy state. 

He's not sure how long this lasts, but eventually they pull away. His eyes open slowly, heavy like weights have been attached, just as they lean in to kiss his cheeks, no longer impeded by the presence of paint. 

"you're so cute," Barzum tells him, echoing Baizli's words from earlier. "can we unwrap you now, so we match?" 

It is at this moment that Gamzee realizes that the both of them are naked of more than their facepaint and masks. 

The twins burst into laughter at the look on his face. He hides his head in his hands, embarrassed at his own embarrassment, but Baizli takes his wrists in hand and pulls them away. "IT'S OKAY, WE JUST THOUGHT YOU HAD NOTICED BEFORE," they say, grin a little wry, quirked to the side. "HAVEN'T YOU PAILED BEFORE?" 

"Yeah, sib, but it's been a while," he mutters, frowning. "Not many motherfuckers want to get down with a clown in this area. Lots of finfaced brothers and sisters have their beach homes here, most of them too good for a sorry motherfucker such as myself." Not even any lowblood that would suck up to a highblood for protection, here- no, they stay well away, and do well by themselves doing so. They'd just be culled for some minor offense by a seadweller looking to release some social or emotional pressure.

Barzum looks sad at that, a few tears glossing their eyes and striking guilt into Gamzee's heart- he didn't mean to make them cry. The twins both croon at him, red and pitying, only making him blush more. He's not used to attention like that, not used to flushed feelings pointed his way. His secondary vocal cords purr back at them before he can make it deliberate, his body acting on its own. Again, he blushes. They seem to find that cuter than they can make words for, both grinning. 

"BUT CAN WE? YOU DIDN'T ANSWER," Baizli asks.

This time, Gamzee untucks his shirt from his sweatpants, in lieu of a verbal reply; the twins correctly take this as an invitation and each slide a hand up his torso, shucking his shirt like a peeled ear of corn. Baizli hooks their fingers in his waistband and tugs it down, while Barzum moves to straddle his chest, one thigh below each set of grubscars. Gamzee sets his hands on Barzum's legs, shivering at the brush of Baizli's hands over his thighs. He can't see what's going on, can only feel, so the touch to his nook and vent is a surprise, despite him sort of expecting it. He "meep"s, prompting a soft laugh from Barzum. 

"brace yourself," they warn him, and then two fingers slide into his nook and curl upwards, pushing his bulge out of its vent. Gamzee moans, eyebrows drawing upwards. As a reward, he sees the tip of Barzum's bulge make an entrance. It uncoils into the air much like his own, smearing preslurry all over his chest. He swallows hard when Barzum scoots forward, sitting almost atop his pusher, now. They barely have to make a move for his mouth before he's opening it for the tip of their bulge, and they coo, "good boy." 

He shivers. The twins giggle. "YoU lIkE tHaT? gOoD," they chorus. Baizli peeks over Barzum's shoulder, plastering themself to their twin's back. Barzum's bulge presses deeper into Gamzee's mouth as Baizli's probes his nook. It only takes a few seconds for it to find what it needs.

Gamzee moans again, louder this time- Baizli's bulge is thick, thicker than Barzum's. Now that he's closer to them, and has them held up against each other for comparison, he notices minute differences such as that: the width of Barzum's jaw is a little less acute than Baizli's; Baizli is a little skinnier than Barzum; and there's a mole here and there he can see that they don't share. Identical in mind they are, but in body, they're only  _ nearly _ identical. Gamzee slides one hand up from Barzum's leg to their side, the pads of his fingers pressing into their grubscars, and delights in the sound it pulls from them, a pretty, rolling purr. 

Baizli's bulge squirms deeper into Gamzee, rolling against his shameglobes. Gamzee's breath hitches in response, before swiftly returning with a purr underneath it. Barzum moans again, enjoying the feeling of his throat vibrating around their bulge, and pets Gamzee's hair, clearing it- with all its tangles- away from his face, the coiling strands flopping back at their direction. He sucks on them, wanting to please them, and they coo at him, well pleased indeed. "you're just a sweetheart," they sigh, expression pensive. "you really like being good, huh? well, we like you. we think you're  _ really _ good. you're the nicest playmate we've had in a while. we wish we could keep you." Their hand wraps around his horn, possessive, and Baizli's eye takes on a sharp gleam, their grin widening. They add in unison, “We KnOw We CaN’t, BuT tHe ThOuGhT iS nIcE, iSn’T iT?”

It's all well that Gamzee can't respond(his chucklevoodoos are still on the fritz), because he has some very embarrassing things to say about that, mostly involving vehement agreement. He doesn't know what he'd be talking about, at this point; his pan has sunk into a pleasant haze. The bulge in his nook wiggles under his seedflap and into his genebladder, and all thought vanishes entirely. He's left whimpering around Barzum, eyes rolled back and claws digging into Barzum's hip. The twins seem to like the pain, though, and reward him with simultaneous thrusts. From anyone else, it might be said that they use him like a toy, but the intent is different, here. They want to overwhelm him, carry him away on a wave of pleasure, make him forget himself for a while. 

They open their mind to him, pry his open, and pour their pleasure in. 

Gamzee's not sure when he pails, or if he pails at all. It doesn't really matter. If he does, it's a mere blip in the crashing tide of sensation battering his pan, his body, his self. He's vaguely conscious of something metal being pushed between his legs at  _ some _ point, but the pleasure lasts long beyond that. It isn't until Barzum finally pails down his throat and he swallows it all- not that he has much of a choice, with the tip of their bulge so far in- that it finally starts to fade, leaving him aching and empty. 

When he starts to cry, they curl around him and rock him to sleep.


End file.
